


Counting My Demons

by Brenda



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Atonement Is Not A Linear Process, Bucky Barnes Feels, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2020440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You do what you need to do, take as much time as you need.  But just know that I'll be waiting for you at the end of it.  No matter how long it takes."</i>
</p><p>Or:</p><p>Bucky has a list.  (He should have known Steve would have a list of his own.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting My Demons

**Author's Note:**

> The Russian Translation of this fic is here: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/6277174>

The neat row of townhouses sat back from the sidewalk along a picturesque, tree-lined street. There was nothing remarkable about any of them, just another block of homes in a seemingly endless string of them, a nice neighborhood in a nice area of town. Suburbia at its finest. 

It may as well have been another planet.

A gust of wind carried a stray plastic bag down the street. Couples huddled together on the sidewalk for warmth as they made their way home or to their cars. Late fall was giving way to winter's chill, but the man currently watching #12 Billingsham gave no notice of the cold. His only concessions to the weather were a thick fleece jacket buttoned all the way up and a pair of worn leather gloves that covered his hands. His hair, dark brown and curling along his nape, fluttered in the breeze, and his cheeks were reddened from the chill, but he didn't move from his position.

He wasn't in any hurry to ring the doorbell. A few more minutes wouldn't matter either way when all was said and done. A family's innocence would still be shattered, no matter what.

Fourteen down, he told himself, although the thought gave him no comfort. He wasn't doing any of this for comfort's sake.

Finally, he walked up the steps and buzzed the bell. A few moments later, he heard shuffling steps on the other side of the door, then the slide of a deadbolt. A small-statured, pleasantly plump woman gazed up at him. She looked to be in her mid-60s, with black hair liberally streaked with grey pulled into a neat bun, and fine thin lines around a generous mouth. Large brown eyes, almost the exact shade of her skin, stared up at him in polite confusion.

"Can I help you?" Her voice was surprisingly musical and soft.

"Are you Diya Brandley?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. She had her brother's regal bearing and his nose. He would know that face anywhere. It was a laceration under his skin, an infected wound that would never be cleansed.

"Yes?" She inched backwards, drew her too-large sweater around herself like a shield. "What is this about?"

"Paresh Varu."

A sharp look of pain momentarily crossed over her face, made her look a decade older. She shivered, and took another tiny step back. He thought about telling her that running wouldn't do her any good – not if he truly meant to harm her. "My brother's been dead for a long time –"

"I know." His gaze never wavered. "I'm the one who killed him."

She raised a hand to her throat, made a small, wounded noise. "I think...I think you better come inside."

So far, no one had shut the door in his face.

He followed her down a narrow hall and into a wide, welcoming living room. Framed pictures of smiling, gap-toothed children dominated most of the space on the walls, and there were a few others scattered here and there of her with an older, grey-haired man and two grown girls who were her spitting image. There was a large comfortable looking sofa along one wall, an entertainment center along the one across from it, and a couple of high-back chairs that matched the sofa. It was clear from looking around that the family spent the bulk of their time in this room, that this was the true center of the house, where guests would be welcomed and told to feel at home.

But she didn't offer him a place to sit or any refreshments. He wouldn't have taken them even if she had. This wasn't a social call and he definitely wasn't a guest.

But he couldn't help the grudging feeling of respect when she pulled herself up to her full height, even though she barely came up to his shoulder, and gave him a long, level look. "Please explain yourself."

This time, he heard the steel under the velvet, and reacted, almost on instinct, to the note of command in her voice. "In 1974, I was given an order to terminate Dr. Paresh Varu – a Level 6 threat – with extreme prejudice for reasons unknown."

"What you're saying...it's impossible." She made a small, abortive gesture at his youthful face and body. "You couldn't have even been born, and even if you were, you wouldn't have been old enough to do...what it is you're suggesting."

He'd heard that argument before, in Kuala Lumpor and Chicago and Bonn. He hadn't known what to say then, either, other than the unvarnished truth. It was all the currency he had. "I was there. Your brother died at my hands."

"But how? The police said he swerved to miss hitting an animal..."

He cut her off with a quick shake of his head. "I ran his car off the cliff. I was ordered to make it look like an accident."

"I'm sorry, I'm just...having a hard time believing this."

The fourteen people he'd spoken to before her had all given him a variation of the same refrain. Plainly stated facts, he'd learned, went a long way towards belief. And with belief came acceptance.

"He was driving a 1973 red Ford Granada. He'd been staying at Palais de la Méditerranée hotel for a conference and was on his way back from a dinner with two of his colleagues. He was wearing a navy blue checked Cassini suit and a flowered lilac tie that you'd given him as a gift the month before. I trailed him for three days before an opportunity presented itself."

"My God, you...you're serious." Ashen, she sank onto the chair behind her. Her eyes were wide and lost and so very fragile. "How...how? Did he suffer when you...? Was he in a lot of pain at the end? I'd always hoped he was unconscious before the flames..." She pursed her lips together, and stopped.

"I don't know. His suffering wasn't relevant to the mission." He frowned. She wasn't reacting the way the others had. "It was over very quickly."

She closed her eyes and nodded. Her throat moved when she swallowed, and when her lips parted, he could barely make out the whispered hush of a prayer. He resisted the urge to flinch – the prayer wasn't for him.

Then she opened her eyes, and gave him another one of those long, level looks. "You said you were ordered. By whom?"

Definitely not like the others. "It doesn't matter."

"Maybe not to you. But it matters a great deal to me. My brother died and my children were denied their uncle for a reason, and I would like to know what that reason is."

He'd made a promise to himself when he started this endeavor that he would answer any questions, no matter what. "Hydra ordered the hit." There was no reason to sugarcoat it or lie about it. Not after the events in D.C. and all of the media coverage and official (and unofficial) investigations. "The order to terminate came from the highest level. I...I wasn't engaged unless the threat was a 5 or higher."

"They must have wanted to stop the DCW Project from getting off the ground," she mused, and let out a shaky breath. "It all makes a terrible sort of sense now."

He was glad it did to one of them. He'd never asked why, and he doubted anyone would have told him even if he had. His compliance and his accuracy had been the only things that had mattered.

"Thank you for telling me. Although I'm curious as to why you did."

This was one answer he could freely give. "Because you've been lied to long enough. You deserve the truth."

"I see." She nodded, once, then got back to her feet. Still shaken, but standing tall. His estimation of her grew even more. "Thank you again. I'll show you out."

"I'll see myself out," he told her, and walked out of the living room without looking back. His mission here was complete.

***

When he got to the sidewalk, he stopped. Allowed himself a single moment to breathe in a lungful of crisp air, to clear the smell of death and decay from his lungs, to let the birdsong drown out the sound of screams in his ears. Then he glanced across the street and frowned. Steve Rogers was waiting on a park bench, sketch book on his knees, pencil in hand, head bent as he worked. He was wearing a leather jacket and well-worn jeans, but he wore no gloves on his fingers and his head was also bare. There were two cups of coffee sitting at his feet.

Bucky took the seat next to Steve, but didn't take the coffee he knew was meant for him. Steve shrugged in reply, but didn't look up from his sketch. The drawing – what Bucky could see of it – was quick and rough-edged, but it was unmistakably the block in front of them, what the street might look like in the spring, with the flowers and trees in full bloom. He didn't ask how Steve had found him. It wasn't like he was trying to hide what he was doing. 

He wasn't hiding from anyone. Not anymore.

They sat in silence for a long few minutes. Bucky watched the play of sun on Steve's hair, the way the light burnished it into a gold halo. Steve continued to shade in houses and cars and trees until he finally seemed satisfied. Then, he looked up. His eyes were the same shade of blue as the sky overhead, but much, much warmer. Bucky had always associated Steve's eyes with summer.

"You know you don't have to do this, Buck."

It wasn't about need, and they both knew it. "They need to know what really happened," he said, and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets to keep from reaching over to smooth the crinkled skin between Steve's brows.

"It's not gonna bring anyone back. Or...hell, it doesn't matter. You don't need to pay penance."

"That's not how this works." It wasn't penance he was seeking. Penance meant forgiveness, and he'd burned that particular bridge decades ago.

Steve sighed, and closed his sketchbook. The breeze ruffled his hair and he shoved it back with an impatient swipe, the gesture as second-nature as breathing. "Will you come home when you're done?"

Home. Bucky didn't even know what that word meant anymore. Once upon a time it had meant Brooklyn and Steve's smile. But New York had changed every bit as much as he had, and he sure as fuck didn't deserve Steve's smiles these days. "Why would you even want me to?"

"I'm gonna pretend you didn't just ask me that."

It would just about figure that Steve would want him back, even after everything he'd done. Stupid son of a bitch's sense of self-preservation was as nonexistent now as it had been back when they were kids. "You're a fucking idiot, you know."

"You forgot stubborn," Steve said, looking unaccountably pleased by the insult.

"It was implied," Bucky told him, then let out a slow, deliberate breath. He wondered if he'd always be able to taste the bite of ash on his tongue. "I dunno what you want from me here. I've got a lot of names left. I don't know when I'll be done."

"You do what you need to do, take as much time as you need. But just know that I'll be waiting for you at the end of it. No matter how long it takes." Steve dropped a folded piece of paper onto Bucky's lap. "And when you're done with your list, I've got another for you of people you need to see."

Bucky unfolded the sheet. None of the names typed on it – and it was a _long_ list – looked familiar. "Ancillary victims?" he asked. Collateral damage, maybe? It would make sense. When he'd been the Winter Soldier, he hadn't exactly cared about minimizing the destruction.

Steve's answering smile was the saddest thing Bucky had ever seen. "They're relatives of all of the people you saved when you were with the 107th and with the Commandos. Soldiers and villagers and civilians and –"

Bucky dropped the paper like he'd been scalded. " _Fuck_ , Steve –"

"If you're gonna take all the credit for the one, you need to take credit for the other."

"That's not –" He clenched his fist, heard the whir of metal on metal, the sound a familiar comfort. "I killed people in cold blood. Their families have the right to look me in the eye when I tell them the truth about what happened to their loved ones. _That's_ what this is about. Nothing else."

"Yeah, you killed people back in the war, too. The Army made trained killers out of all of us. Not just you."

How anyone could look at Steve and call him a killer... Hell, how Steve could look at himself and think that they were _anything_ alike... 

"It's not the same thing." It wasn't even on the same playing field. 

There was a wild light of triumph in Steve's eyes when he nodded. "Exactly. It's not the same thing at all, and do you know why? Because back then you had a _choice_. One you made for the greater good, same as I did, so people could be free. You killed people during the war to save a lot more lives. What you were forced to do for Hydra? That wasn't a choice you made."

"I still remember every kill. Every single person who died at my hands."

"I know, Buck." Steve's face softened along with his voice. "I still remember everyone I've ever killed, too. Still see their faces sometimes when I close my eyes. I don't think it's the kind of thing anyone comes back from, not all the way."

"Then why the hell are you here?" Haunting me, Bucky wanted to add, but didn't. He had enough ghosts on the tattered remnants of his conscience without adding Steve to it.

Steve tapped on the paper. "Because _this_ list is just as important. The people whose lives you saved? They matter, too. What you did back then matters more than you'll ever know." 

He took the paper and scribbled something along the bottom, then folded it and put it back in Bucky's unresisting hands, covering them with his own. The light touch, even through the gloves, burned like a brand. A mark Bucky knew he'd carry for life.

"It _matters_ ," Steve told him, fierce and low, then stood. He bent, brushed a light kiss – another mark – to Bucky's hair. "You know where I'll be when you're done."

Bucky watched him leave, sketchbook tucked under his arm, coffee cup in hand, the wind still ruffling his hair, but didn't get up from his seat. He wasn't entirely sure his legs would support him. He wasn't entirely sure he could trust himself not to run after Steve and beg for a forgiveness that wasn't even Steve's to give, and one he'd never earn, no matter how many truths he told or reparations he made. The sun started to set and the temperature dropped along with it, but he still didn't move until the light was almost gone.

With a low sigh, he unfolded the paper again, and the sigh turned into a muffled noise he quickly buried in the back of his throat. "You fucking asshole," he muttered to himself, and let out a small, ironic laugh.

At the bottom of the list, there was one final name written in neat, precise script:

_Steven Grant Rogers._

***

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to G. and Melle for the betas.
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/). :)


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